Nine Letters
by Rector
Summary: Written for @sherlockchallenge July 2016 prompt: Domestic 'Crimes'.


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 **Nine Letters.**

 _Dissemble_ : To conceal or disguise one's true feelings or beliefs.

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It was an arrant act of theft and Mycroft was not amused.

"Where is it, Sherlock?" his tone a magnitude more imperative than his words.

"No idea what you're talking about," the younger Holmes lifted his eyes fleetingly from that day's Times cryptic as his sibling positioned himself strategically in the living room of 221B, Mycroft's sudden appearance insufficient to divert him from the crossword. Not that it truly merited more than a fraction of his attention; the designer of this one had been having a bad day when it was put together.

 _Egyptian peninsula, desert island trail. European retraced before mass opposition to elites_ , fourteen letters. _Hmm_. How obvious. What were these people thinking of these days? Indeed, were they _actually_ thinking? One wondered.

Mycroft stood stiffly. "It was in my car. You were given a lift in my car and now it is no longer there. My driver has his own and nobody else had access to the Jaguar but you, ergo, you took it. Where is it? I want it now, please."

 _Egyptian peninsula, desert island trail, retraced_ ... Clearly Sinai ... _retraced_ , thus backwards ... IANIS ...

"Why would I steal anything of yours, Mycroft?" Sherlock murmured absently, his eyes remaining squarely on the crossword. He tapped the folded paper with the end of his pen. _Mass equals M_. "Perhaps you should speak to that assistant of yours; you know she's prone to taking all manner of liberties."

Mycroft realised that standing crossly would achieve nothing. He sat. Sherlock never could lie effectively when push really came to shove and all that was needed was the merest modicum of direct eye-contact. Sitting back in John's chair, he crossed his legs, noting as he did how the extreme shine of his black Oxfords reflected something of his brother's downward-facing features. An interesting discovery and potentially a useful one.

Sherlock tapped the pen. _Opposition to elites_ ... well, clearly, that was ...

"Anthea knows full well to leave my umbrella wherever I put it," Mycroft tilted the glossy cap of his left shoe and was able to catch the unchanging shape of his brother's expression. He sighed inwardly; this was going to take far too long. There was only one thing to do.

"I spoke with the son of Major-General Michael Gambier-Parry this morning," the elder Holmes sniffed faintly. "The General was at Tobruk, you know."

"And?" _Desert island trail_ ... an anagram, obviously, but also a redaction. Possibly also a reverse. _Trail,_ reversed and reduced was ...

"Robert Gambier-Parry, the son, a composer, is writing an opera about his father's wartime exploits ... _Desert Rat_ he's calling it." Mycroft examined the nails of his left hand and waited.

The air between the brothers stilled.

Sherlock looked up slowly, his eyebrows twin accusations.

"You did that on purpose."

Mycroft said nothing. The newspaper Sherlock held was _The Times_ and the only crossword that might engage his younger brother for more than a few seconds was the Cryptic; his pen had tapped the third line of boxes. Having completed the same puzzle himself during a breakfast videoconference not four hours earlier, Mycroft knew the solution to this particular question to be _Egalitarianism_ and that Sherlock would have enjoyed teasing it out. Such a shame to have that enjoyment cut short. He smiled benevolently.

"Return my property and I'll leave you in peace," his eyebrows lifted slightly of their own accord.

Sherlock ignored the implied and rather unconvincing blackmail; he'd almost had the answer in any case. The next clue was shorter but no less curious. The crossword designer's brain must have warmed up a little. _Mature houses on square_. Five letters. Square housing mature? Old age? In which case ... _A_ _G_ something ...

"I totally _agree_ that the Times offers a modicum of amusement," Mycroft linked his fingers, his eyes flicking down to the mirrored toe of his shoe. There was a minor reaction this time, which pleased him.

" _Mycroft!_ " Sherlock slapped the folded paper on his thigh. "I did not _steal_ your umbrella. Leave my crossword alone!"

"Hopefully, Doctor Watson will be back from the conference very shortly and then you can both continue your semi-legal though ethically-dubious vigilantism," the elder Holmes understood the driving need for mental engagement. "And whether your intention was to thieve it or not, you cannot deny you have it," Mycroft eased himself more comfortably into John's upholstered chair. "Hand it over, there's a good brother."

"I did not steal it," Sherlock's eyes finally left the crossword and stared across the short distance between them. The collision of their gaze was almost tangible.

 _Oh_. Despite the sudden insight, Mycroft maintained an impassive exterior.

"Then where is it?" he demanded, his tone softer yet still edged with impatience. "Really, Sherlock, I imagined the consequences of your last theft from me would have given you pause, if nothing else."

"You got your Ultra identity card back undamaged," Sherlock linked his own fingers in his lap and looked virtuous. "And if nothing else," he mirrored Mycroft's words as well as his pose, "Baskerville received a thorough and realistic security check," he added, a _moue_ of consideration pursing his mouth. "I _imagined_ that in itself would have been worth the British government's wholehearted thanks rather than its hostility."

"Ultra clearances aren't handed out like business cards at a Japanese sushi convention, Sherlock," Mycroft's exasperation grew. Frankland's toxically dangerous and highly illegal nerve agent was still being investigated; everyone hoping there would be no lingering effects to its exposure. He eyed his brother carefully. "Though you did well, all things considered," his tone was milder.

"Yes, well," the younger Holmes sighed briefly and shrugged, his eyes returning to the crossword. "John's been doing quite a lot of research on neurological response to gaseous contaminants as a result, hence his attendance at the Norwich conference."

"Three days is not so terribly long," Mycroft scrutinised a fine crack in the plastered ceiling.

Sherlock gave his brother a critical glance. "Not long in the least," he said carefully, wondering where Mycroft might be going with such an observation.

"Insufficient time to become _excessively_ bored, wouldn't you say?"

"It would depend," Sherlock abandoned the Times' cryptic and folded his arms. "On the nature of available distractions."

Keeping an inner smile off his face, Mycroft consigned the maintenance of the ceiling to whichever god was most relevant. "I did not have time to complete yesterday's crossword," he admitted, apropos of nothing, as he met his brother's eyes.

"Really?" Sherlock gave him a sideways glance. "I thought you made a habit of attempting the cryptic every day before breakfast?"

"As a rule, you'd be correct," Mycroft blinked, disregarding the slur of _attempt_. "But yesterday provided an especially joyous teleconference with my counterpart in Jakarta; the only space available was during his midday break which was, unfortunately ..."

"Six in the morning, London time," Sherlock nodded, appreciating the difficulty of conversing in Bahasa Indonesia before one's heart had begun to beat properly. "But surely you must have Aides who could have helped?"

"Indeed," Mycroft folded his hands together and nodded. "However, Mr Sukarno has staff who speak almost entirely in either Indonesian or Dutch or some dialect thereof, so my work was cut out for me," he made a resigned face. "After which, I seemed entirely unable to find the necessary four minutes to complete the thing," he looked vaguely sorrowful. "Was it a good one?"

"Four minutes?" Sherlock's left eyebrow lifted. "Flat?"

"Occasionally less, if the muse is with me," Mycroft's smile would have unsettled a Great White. "Why? Does it take you longer?"

The challenge hung in the air like freshly raised dust.

"As it happens, I had no opportunity to read the paper at all yesterday," Sherlock dug down in the pile of newsprint beside him, unearthing a pristine copy of the previous day's edition, laying it across the arm of his chair. "John bought a new printer two weeks ago."

It was Mycroft's turn to lift an eyebrow. "Meaning it photocopies as well as prints?"

"And I happen to have a spare pen," Sherlock looked smug, then frowned. "Somewhere."

"No need, brother dear," Mycroft flipped his jacket open, extracting a gloriously _chic_ fountain pen of black and silver. "Let me have the photocopy; this one dislikes newsprint," he unscrewed the cap with a loving movement.

It was a matter of seconds before Sherlock handed over a single A4 sheet with the necessary matrix and clues. As he returned to his chair, he checked to see if Mycroft had cheated and begun early, yet his brother had not so much as glanced at the sheet resting on his knee on a copy of the _TV Times_. Rather, Mycroft was looking at him, an unmistakable caveat in his expression.

"Just to be clear, Sherlock. I expect to have my umbrella back in my possession before I leave; there will be no quibbling about this."

"I do not quibble," Sherlock hunted for his stopwatch. "Neither do I spin," he muttered, settling himself, pen at the ready, thumb on the watch's starting button. "Ready?"

Lifting his pen as might some medieval knight at joust, the elder Holmes merely smiled.

" _Go_."

It was really gratifyingly simple. One down ... _Food container for one with British beef_ three and three ... Mycroft didn't attempt to restrain the faint curve of his mouth. For one, meaning for _example_ , thus _e.g._ combined with Britain and Ox, therefore, _Egg Box_. With the faintest of movements, he inscribed the appropriate letters.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. _Why dwell on old, inaccurate descriptions of some companies?_ Six and five. God, the anagrams were childishly simple these days, he sighed, writing _Wholly-Owned_ in his neat script.

 _Behold, perhaps, tea is served in part of organisation_ ... with a delicate flick of his wrist, Mycroft noted the word _Archaism_ , Cha being contained by 'Inside arm', colloquialism of the latter noun.

Sherlock blinked slowly at the next one. Ten letters. _Cheery article probes updated mobiles_. _Ah_ , he paused. Of course! _Anagram of Mobiles and The/article_. Simplicity itself.

A small crease forming between his eyes, Mycroft considered thirty-seven down. _Evidence of failure, to doctors?_ There was a fractional pause as his mind rifled through a host of abbreviations. But of course. _Tombs_ ; to a Master of Biomedical Science, it would have been painfully obvious. Lifting his beautiful pen, he began to inscribe the first letter, only to stop short. With a small sigh of regret, he re-screwed the cap, replacing the handsome implement in his jacket pocket. Folding his hands together, he waited the remaining two minutes and forty-three seconds until his brother clicked the stopwatch off with a triumphant smile.

"Four minutes and two seconds!" Sherlock was manifestly pleased at the achievement, his smile fading as he observed Mycroft's unmoving hands. "You've already finished?" he challenged. "Why didn't you tell me to stop the watch?"

"Finished, Sherlock, but not completed," he tipped his head and smiled, spreading his hands wide. "I ran out of ink."

"I insist on a rematch," the younger Holmes threw his newspaper aside. "Name your weapon."

"I don't have time for this," Mycroft's sigh was audible this time. "Where's my umbrella? I have work to do that cannot be delayed by your petulance."

"I cannot possibly allow you to let me win on a technicality," Sherlock flung himself to his feet. "I demand satisfaction!"

"Are we about to duel, Sherlock?" Mycroft looked up into his brother's face and remembered a long-ago day when a rambunctious five-year-old wreaked havoc with a small plastic sword. It was impossible not to smile.

The expression on the younger brother's face was inscrutable. Swivelling on his toes, he stepped across to the bookshelf by the window, picking up an old and timeworn doll.

"Tell me what you see and if you can deduce more than I already have, I'll consider honour satisfied and return your property," he announced, handing the toy over.

"So you _did_ steal my umbrella?" Mycroft frowned.

"Of course I didn't steal it."

"Technically, yes."

"Technically, _no_ ," Sherlock scowled. "I took it to make a point."

"That being?" Mycroft was only half-listening, much of his attention focused on the battered doll in his hand. Lifting it to his face, he made out old smoke beneath a more recent absorption. His nose wrinkled at the smell of burned plastic.

The doll itself was nothing terribly unique; cheap, made in a developing country, circa nineteen-seventies; used by at least two, no _three_ different children. Several small marks on the plastic legs and feet of the doll, the way it had been dressed, still wearing dainty white socks and little plastic shoes ... He turned the doll around in his long fingers. _Ah_. A sense of melancholy took him by surprise. No wonder Sherlock was in temporary possession of such an artefact. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"This doll belonged to a young girl recently found dead following a house fire," he began. "It belonged originally to the child's grandmother most likely, who may well have brought her up; the child's mother dying of a smoking-related illness in the last year. There was also a vector of violence within the home," his fingertip ghosted over a deep dent in the doll's back where it had been thrown with significant force. "The child's father or stepfather, perhaps. The family was not well-off, but there was a closeness," he paused, looking up. "There is a sister."

"Yes," Sherlock gave no other indication that his sibling was correct. "What else?"

Mycroft sighed. "The sister is missing, probably following the recent fire," he said. "You need to speak with a close neighbour, an older woman," he added. "Someone who uses Persil detergent and who was familiar with both children. The second sister is in that house and may be hiding from the father."

"There's always _something_ ," Sherlock was already on his phone to the Yard. Issuing a string of instructions to redirect the search for the missing sister, he ended the call and dropped the phone on the coffee table. Standing still for the moment, Sherlock rolled his head on his shoulders, stretching his neck. Blinking, he remembered. In a few strides, he was at the front door of the flat where his coat hung. Lifting it, he unhooked his brother's umbrella, dropping the coat over the arm of the settee.

"Honour satisfied," he spoke quietly. "I'm sorry you ran out of ink."

Realising both he _and_ his brother now had what they wanted, Mycroft stood, taking the umbrella from Sherlock's unresisting fingers. "You but needed to ask," he said, pausing. "When is John back?"

"Tomorrow night, why?" Sherlock half-turned, staring at his brother.

"Then perhaps we might try this again tomorrow morning?" Mycroft smiled expressively. "I will remember to bring a full pen this time."

"Mrs Hudson makes scones on Thursdays," Sherlock stood straighter. "You may have to eat one to remain in her good books."

"For Queen and Country." Even to himself, Mycroft sounded light-hearted. If his brother could dissemble, then so could he.

He was whistling as he walked down the stairs.


End file.
